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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 




IT-Mirrt 



THE HANGING OF 
THE CRANE 

AND OTHER POEMS OF THE HOME 
BY HENRY WADSWORTH 
^LONGFELLOW 

ILLUSTRATED 



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BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 



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Copyright, 1874, 
By HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 

Copyright, 1893, 
By HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO. 

All rights reserved. 



4f 



The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass. , U.S.A. 
Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Co. 



Content^ 



PAGE 

THE HANGING OF THE CRANE ... I 

THE CHILDREN'S HOUR 14 

TO A CHILD 17 

MAIDENHOOD 28 

THE CASTLE-BUILDER 32 

WEARINESS 34 

THE GOLDEN MILE-STONE . . . . 36 

CHILDREN 4° 

RESIGNATION 43 

SONG 47 

NOTES 49 



Jlfet of BlUu^trattons? 

PAGE 

" They are plotting and planning together 

To take me by surprise " (Page 15) . . Frontispiece 

" For two alone, there in the hall, 

Is spread the table round and small " 3 

" The meadow-brook, that seemeth to stand still " . 9 

" I see thee eager at thy play " 21 

" Gather, then, each flower that grows " 30 

" An eager listener unto stories told 

Of heroes and adventures manifold " 32 

" By the fireside there are peace and comfort " . . 38 

" By silence sanctifying, not concealing, 

The grief that must have way " 46 




€|>e gauging of tfjc Crane 



HE lights are out, and gone are 
all the guests 
That thronging came with mer- 
riment and jests 
To celebrate the Hanging of the Crane 
In the new house, — into the night are 

gone; 
But still the fire upon the hearth burns on, 
And I alone remain. 

O fortunate, O happy day, 
When a new household finds its place 
Among the myriad homes of earth, 
i 



CIjc 3§att£ttig nf tfje Crane 

Like a new star just sprung to birth, 
And rolled on its harmonious way 
Into the boundless realms of space ! 

So said the guests in speech and song, 
As in the chimney, burning bright, 
We hung the iron crane to-night, 
And merry was the feast and long. 



II 



AND now I sit and muse on what may 
be, 
And in my vision see, or seem to see, 
Through floating vapors interfused with 
light, 
Shapes indeterminate, that gleam and 

fade, 
As shadows passing into deeper shade 
Sink and elude the sight. 



Clje l^ansms at t\)t Crane 

For two alone, there in the hall, 

Is spread the table round and small ; 

Upon the polished silver shine 

The evening lamps, but, more divine, 

The light of love shines over all ; 

Of love, that says not mine and thine, 

But ours, for ours is thine and mine. 

They want no guests, to come between 
Their tender glances like a screen, 
And tell them tales of land and sea, 
And whatsoever may betide 
The great, forgotten world outside ; 
They want no guests ; they needs must be 
Each other's own best company. 



€f)e Utanstnfl at tfjf Crane 



III 



THE picture fades ; as at a village fair 
A showman's views, dissolving into 
air, 
Again appear transfigured on the screen, 
So in my fancy this ; and now once more, 
In part transfigured, through the open 
door 
Appears the selfsame scene. 

Seated, I see the two again, 
But not alone ; they entertain 
A little angel unaware, 
With face as round as is the moon ; 
A royal guest with flaxen hair, 
Who, throned upon his lofty chair, 
Drums on the table with his spoon, 
Then drops it careless on the floor, 
To grasp at things unseen before. 
4 



Efyt Ktangms of tfje dTrane 

Are these celestial manners ? these 
The ways that win, the arts that please ? 
Ah yes ; consider well the guest, 
And whatsoe'er he does seems best ; 
He ruleth by the right divine 
Of helplessness, so lately born 
In purple chambers of the morn, 
As sovereign over thee and thine. 
He speaketh not ; and yet there lies 
A conversation in his eyes ; 
The golden silence of the Greek, 
The gravest wisdom of the wise, 
Not spoken in language, but in looks 
More legible than printed books, 
As if he could but would not speak. 
And now, O monarch absolute, 
Thy power is put to proof ; for, lo ! 
Resistless, fathomless, and slow, 
The nurse comes rustling like the sea, 
And pushes back thy chair and thee, 
And so good night to King Canute. 

5 



Cl)e itefltng nf tlje Crane 



IV 



AS one who walking in a forest sees 
A lovely landscape through the 
parted trees, 
Then sees it not, for boughs that inter- 
vene ; 
Or as we see the moon sometimes revealed 
Through drifting clouds, and then again 
concealed, 
So I behold the scene. 

There are two guests at table now ; 
The king, deposed and older grown, 
No longer occupies the throne, — 
The crown is on his sister's brow ; 
A Princess from the Fairy Isles, 
The very pattern girl of girls, 
All covered and embowered in curls, 
Rose-tinted from the Isle of Flowers, 
6 



€3je ^attjjma 0* tfje Crane 

And sailing with soft, silken sails 
From far-off Dreamland into ours. 
Above their bowls with rims of blue 
Four azure eyes of deeper hue 
Are looking, dreamy with delight ; 
Limpid as planets that emerge 
Above the ocean's rounded verge, 
Soft-shining through the summer night 
Steadfast they gaze, yet nothing see 
Beyond the horizon of their bowls ; 
Nor care they for the world that rolls 
With all its freight of troubled souls 
Into the days that are to be. 



A 



GAIN the tossing boughs shut out 



the scene, 
Again the drifting vapors intervene, 



Clje gauging of tfje Crane 

And the moon's pallid disk is hidden 
quite ; 
And now I see the table wider grown, 
As round a pebble into water thrown 
Dilates a ring of light. 

I see the table wider grown, 
I see it garlanded with guests, 
As if fair Ariadne's Crown 
Out of the sky had fallen down ; 
Maidens within whose tender breasts 
A thousand restless hopes and fears, 
Forth reaching to the coming years, 
Flutter awhile, then quiet lie, 
Like timid birds that fain would fly, 
But do not dare to leave their nests ; — 
And youths, who in their strength elate 
Challenge the van and front of fate, 
Eager as champions to be 
In the divine knight-errantry 
Of youth, that travels sea and land 
8 



Cije S£attsut0 of tlje Crane 



Seeking adventures, or pursues, 
Through cities, and through solitudes 
Frequented by the lyric Muse, 
The phantom with the beckoning hand, 
That still allures and still eludes. 
O sweet illusions of the brain ! 
O sudden thrills of fire and frost ! 
The world is bright while ye remain, 
And dark and dead when ye are lost ! 



VI 



THE meadow-brook, that seemeth to 
stand still, 
Quickens its current as it nears the mill ; 

And so the stream of Time that lingereth 
In level places, and so dull appears, 
Runs with a swifter current as it nears 
The gloomy mills of Death. 



Cfje Hanging at tfyt Crane 

And now, like the magician's scroll, 
That in the owner's keeping shrinks 
With every wish he speaks or thinks, 
Till the last wish consumes the whole, 
The table dwindles, and again 
I see the two alone remain. 
The crown of stars is broken in parts ; 
Its jewels, brighter than the day, 
Have one by one been stolen away 
To shine in other homes and hearts. 
One is a wanderer now afar 
In Ceylon or in Zanzibar, 
Or sunny regions of Cathay ; 
And one is in the boisterous camp 
Mid clink of arms and horses' tramp, 
And battle's terrible array. 
I see the patient mother read, 
With aching heart, of wrecks that float 
Disabled on those seas remote, 
Or of some great heroic deed 
On battle-fields, where thousands bleed 
10 



Clje ^aitflt'nfl at tljc Crane 



To lift one hero into fame. 
Anxious she bends her graceful head 
Above these chronicles of pain, 
And trembles with a secret dread 
Lest there among the drowned or slain 
She find the one beloved name. 



VII 

AFTER a day of cloud and wind and 
rain 
Sometimes the setting sun breaks out 
again, 
And, touching all the darksome woods 
with light, 
Smiles on the fields, until they laugh and 

sing, 
Then like a ruby from the horizon's ring 
Drops down into the night. 



Ii 



Cfje Haiiflttifl of tfft Crane 



What see I now ? The night is fair, 

The storm of grief, the clouds of care, 

The wind, the rain, have passed away ; 

The lamps are lit, the fires burn bright, 

The house is full of life and light : 

It is the Golden Wedding day. 

The guests come thronging in once more, 

Quick footsteps sound along the floor, 

The trooping children crowd the stair, 

And in and out and everywhere 

Flashes along the corridor 

The sunshine of their golden hair. 

On the round table in the hall 

Another Ariadne's Crown 

Out of the sky hath fallen down ; 

More than one Monarch of the Moon 

Is drumming with his silver spoon ; 

The light of love shines over all. 

O fortunate, O happy day ! 
The people sing, the people say. 

12 



The ancient bridegroom and the bride, 
Smiling contented and serene 
Upon the blithe, bewildering scene, 
Behold, well pleased, on every side 
Their forms and features multiplied, 
As the reflection of a light 
Between two burnished mirrors gleams, 
Or lamps upon a bridge at night 
Stretch on and on before the sight, 
Till the long vista endless seems. 



13 



€f)c €ptotttt'0 ipoin: 




ETWEEN the dark and the day- 
light, 
When the night is beginning to 
lower, 
Comes a pause in the day's occupations, 
That is known as the Children's Hour. 

I hear in the chamber above me 

The patter of little feet, 
The sound of a door that is opened, 

And voices soft and sweet. 



From my study I see in the lamplight, 
Descending the broad hall stair, 

Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, 
And Edith with golden hair. 
14 



Clje €%illsvm'& ?i?our 



A whisper, and then a silence : 
Yet I know by their merry eyes 

They are plotting and planning together 
To take me by surprise. 

A sudden rush from the stairway, 
A sudden raid from the hall ! 

By three doors left unguarded 
They enter my castle wall ! 

They climb up into my turret 

O'er the arms and back of my chair j 
If I try to escape, they surround me ; 

They seem to be everywhere. 

They almost devour me with kisses, 
Their arms about me entwine, 

Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen 
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine ! 



iS 



€&e Cfjtftftxn'g $?aur 



Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, 
Because you have scaled the wall, 

Such an old mustache as I am 
Is not a match for you all ! 

I have you fast in my fortress, 
And will not let you depart, 

But put you down into the dungeon 
In the round-tower of my heart. 

And there will I keep you forever, 

Yes, forever and a day, 
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, 

And moulder in dust away ! 



16 




jEAR child ! how radiant on thy 
mother's knee, 
With merry-making eyes and 
jocund smiles, 
Thou gazest at the painted tiles, 
Whose figures grace, 
With many a grotesque form and face, 
The ancient chimney of thy nursery ! 
The lady with the gay macaw, 
The dancing girl, the grave bashaw 
With bearded lip and chin ; 
And, leaning idly o'er his gate, 
Beneath the imperial fan of state, 
The Chinese mandarin. 

With what a look of proud command 
Thou shakest in thy little hand 
J 7 



Co a Cljtltr 

The coral rattle with its silver bells, 
Making a merry tune ! 
Thousands of years in Indian seas 
That coral grew, by slow degrees, 
Until some deadly and wild monsoon 
Dashed it on Coromandel's sand ! 
Those silver bells 
Reposed of yore, 
As shapeless ore, 

Far down in the deep-sunken wells 
Of darksome mines, 
In some obscure and sunless place, 
Beneath huge Chimborazo's base, 
Or Potosi's o'erhanging pines ! 
And thus for thee, O little child, 
Through many a danger and escape, 
The tall ships passed the stormy cape ; 
For thee in foreign lands remote, 
Beneath a burning, tropic clime, 
The Indian peasant, chasing the wild 
goat, 

18 



Co a <£f)tHf 

Himself as swift and wild, 

In falling, clutched the frail arbute, 

The fibres of whose shallow root, 

Uplifted from the soil, betrayed 

The silver veins beneath it laid, 

The buried treasures of the miser, Time. 



But, lo ! thy door is left ajar ! 

Thou nearest footsteps from afar ! 

And, at the sound, 

Thou turnest round 

With quick and questioning eyes, 

Like one, who, in a foreign land, 

Beholds on every hand 

Some source of wonder and surprise ! 

And, restlessly, impatiently, 

Thou strivest, strugglest, to be free. 

The four walls of thy nursery 
Are now like prison walls to thee. 
No more thy mother's smiles, 

J 9 



Ea a CJjtltf 

No more the painted tiles, 

Delight thee, nor the playthings on the 
floor, 

That won thy little, beating heart be- 
fore ; 

Thou strugglest for the open door. 

Through these once solitary halls 
Thy pattering footstep falls. 
The sound of thy merry voice 
Makes the old walls 
Jubilant, and they rejoice 
With the joy of thy young heart, 
O'er the light of whose gladness 
No shadows of sadness 
From the sombre background of memory 
start. 

Once, ah, once, within these walls, 
One whom memory oft recalls, 
The Father of his Country, dwelt. 
20 



Cfl a £I)tttr 

And yonder meadows broad and damp 
The fires of the besieging camp 
Encircled with a burning belt. 
Up and down these echoing stairs, 
Heavy with the weight of cares, 
Sounded his majestic tread ; 
Yes, within this very room 
Sat he in those hours of gloom, 
Weary both in heart and head. 

But what are these grave thoughts to 

thee? 
Out, out ! into the open air ! 
Thy only dream is liberty, 
Thou carest little how or where. 
I see thee eager at thy play, 
Now shouting to the apples on the tree, 
With cheeks as round and red as they ; 
And now among the yellow stalks, 
Among the flowering shrubs and plants, 
As restless as the bee. 

21 



€0 k <£f)tttf 



Along the garden walks, 

The tracks of thy small carriage-wheels 

I trace ; 
And see at every turn how they efface 
Whole villages of sand-roofed tents, 
That rise like golden domes 
Above the cavernous and secret homes 
Of wandering and nomadic tribes of ants. 
Ah, cruel little Tamerlane, 
Who, with thy dreadful reign, 
Dost persecute and overwhelm 
These hapless Troglodytes of thy realm ! 

What ! tired already ! with those suppli- 
ant looks, 
And voice more beautiful than a poet's 

books, 
Or murmuring sound of water as it flows, 
Thou comest back to parley with repose ! 
This rustic seat in the old apple-tree, 
With its o'erhanging golden canopy 

22 



€0 a dTIjtnr 

Of leaves illuminate with autumnal hues, 
And shining with the argent light of 

dews, 
Shall for a season be our place of rest. 
Beneath us, like an oriole's pendent nest, 
From which the laughing birds have taken 

wing, 
By thee abandoned, hangs thy vacant 

swing. 
Dream-like the waters of the river gleam ; 
A sailless vessel drops adown the stream, 
And like it, to a sea as wide and deep, 
Thou driftest gently down the tides of 

sleep. 

O child ! O new-born denizen 
Of life's great city ! on thy head 
The glory of the morn is shed, 
Like a celestial benison ! 
Here at the portal thou dost stand, 
And with thy little hand 
23 



1&a a <£!)tttf 

Of leaves illuminate with autumnal hues, 
And shining with the argent light of 

dews, 
Shall for a season be our place of rest. 
Beneath us, like an oriole's pendent nest, 
From which the laughing birds have taken 

wing, 
By thee abandoned, hangs thy vacant 

swing. 
Dream-like the waters of the river gleam • 
A sailless vessel drops adown the stream, 
And like it, to a sea as wide and deep, 
Thou driftest gently down the tides of 

sleep. 

O child ! O new-born denizen 
Of life's great city ! on thy head 
The glory of the morn is shed, 
Like a celestial benison ! 
Here at the portal thou dost stand, 
And with thy little hand 
23 



€a a Cfjtltr 

Thou openest the mysterious gate 

Into the future's undiscovered land. 

I see its valves expand, 

As at the touch of Fate ! 

Into those realms of love and hate, 

Into that darkness blank and drear, 

By some prophetic feeling taught, 

I launch the bold, adventurous thought, 

Freighted with hope and fear ; 

As upon subterranean streams, 

In caverns unexplored and dark, 

Men sometimes launch a fragile bark, 

Laden with flickering fire. 

And watch its swift-receding beams, 

Until at length they disappear, 

And in the distant dark expire. 

By what astrology of fear or hope 
Dare I to cast thy horoscope ! 
Like the new moon thy life appears ; 
A little strip of silver light, 
24 



Co a €l)ilis 



And widening outward into night 

The shadowy disk of future years ; 

And yet upon its outer rim, 

A luminous circle, faint and dim, 

And scarcely visible to us here, 

Rounds and completes the perfect 

sphere ; 
A prophecy and intimation, 
A pale and feeble adumbration, 
Of the great world of light, that lies 
Behind all human destinies. 

Ah ! if thy fate, with anguish fraught, 
Should be to wet the dusty soil 
With the hot tears and sweat of toil, — 
To struggle with imperious thought, 
Until the overburdened brain, 
Weary with labor, faint with pain, 
Like a jarred pendulum, retain 
Only its motion, not its power, — 
Remember, in that perilous hour, 

25 



Ca a erijtttr 

When most afflicted and oppressed, 
From labor there shall come forth rest. 

And if a more auspicious fate 
On thy advancing steps await, 
Still let it ever be thy pride 
To linger by the laborer's side ; 
With words of sympathy or song 
To cheer the dreary march along 
Of the great army of the poor, 
O'er desert sand, o'er dangerous moor. 
Nor to thyself the task shall be 
Without reward ; for thou shalt learn 
The wisdom early to discern 
True beauty in utility ; 
As great Pythagoras of yore, 
Standing beside the blacksmith's door, 
And hearing the hammers, as they smote 
The anvils with a different note, 
Stole from the varying tones, that hung 
Vibrant on every iron tongue, 
26 



Co a Cl)tla 



The secret of the sounding wire, 
And formed the seven-chorded lyre. 

Enough ! I will not play the Seer ; 
I will no longer strive to ope 
The mystic volume, where appear 
The herald Hope, forerunning Fear, 
And Fear, the pursuivant of Hope. 
Thy destiny remains untold ; 
For, like Acestes' shaft of old, 
The swift thought kindles as it flies, 
And burns to ashes in the skies. 



27 




AIDEN" ! with the meek, brown 
eyes, 
In whose orbs a shadow lies 
Like the dusk in evening skies ! 



Thou whose locks outshine the sun, 
Golden tresses, wreathed in one, 
As the braided streamlets run ! 

Standing, with reluctant feet, 
Where the brook and river meet, 
Womanhood and childhood fleet ! 

Gazing, with a timid glance, 
On the brooklet's swift advance, 
On the river's broad expanse ! 
28 



J$attonI)0Dtr 



Deep and still, that gliding stream 
Beautiful to thee must seem, 
As the river of a dream. 

Then why pause with indecision, 
When bright angels in thy vision 
Beckon thee to fields Elysian ? 

Seest thou shadows sailing by, 
As the dove, with startled eye, 
Sees the falcon's shadow fly ? 

Hearest thou voices on the shore, 
That our ears perceive no more, 
Deafened by the cataract's roar ? 

Oh, thou child of many prayers ! 

Life hath quicksands, — Life hath 

snares ! 
Care and age come unawares ! 



29 



JHattant)00tr 



Like the swell of some sweet tune, 
Morning rises into noon, 
May glides onward into June. 

Childhood is the bough, where slumbered 
Birds and blossoms many-numbered ; — 
Age, that bough with snows encum- 
bered. 

Gather, then, each flower that grows, 
When the young heart overflows, 
To embalm that tent of snows. 

Bear a lily in thy hand ; 

Gates of brass cannot withstand 

One touch of that magic wand. 

Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth, 
In thy heart the dew of youth, 
On thy lips the smile of truth. 



3° 





/ 






jHattettfjaatf 



Oh, that dew, like balm, shall steal 
Into wounds that cannot heal, 
Even as sleep our eyes doth seal ; 

And that smile, like sunshine, dart 
Into many a sunless heart, 
For a smile of God thou art. 



3i 




€l)e <£a£tte25utftier 

GENTLE boy, with soft and 
silken locks, 
A dreamy boy, with brown and 
tender eyes, 
A castle-builder, with his wooden blocks, 
And towers that touch imaginary skies. 

A fearless rider on his father's knee, 
An eager listener unto stories told 

At the Round Table of the nursery, 
Of heroes and adventures manifold. 

There will be other towers for thee to build ; 

There will be other steeds for thee to 

ride ; 

There will be other legends, and all filled 

With greater marvels and more glorified. 

3 2 



Cfjc €^tU-M\iiXtstt 



Build on, and make thy castles high and 
fair, 
Rising and reaching upward to the 
skies j 
Listen to voices in the upper air, 

Nor lose thy simple faith in mysteries. 



33 



J©earine££ 




LITTLE feet ! that such long 

years 
Must wander on through hopes 
and fears, 
Must ache and bleed beneath your load ; 
I, nearer to the wayside inn 
Where toil shall cease and rest begin, 
Am weary, thinking of your road ! 

O little hands ! that, weak or strong, 
Have still to serve or rule so long, 

Have still so long to give or ask ; 
I, who so much with book and pen 
Have toiled among my fellow-men, 

Am weary, thinking of your task. 

34 



©tanned 



O little hearts ! that throb and beat 
With such impatient, feverish heat, 

Such limitless and strong desires ; 
Mine, that so long has glowed and burned, 
With passions into ashes turned 

Now covers and conceals its fires. 

O little souls ! as pure and white 
And crystalline as rays of light 

Direct from heaven, their source divine ; 
Refracted through the mist of years, 
How red my setting sun appears, 

How lurid looks this soul of mine ! 



35 



€§z <*Mtien &$iIe^§tone 



WWi 



1 



a 




EAFLESS are the trees ; their 
purple branches 
Spread themselves abroad, like 
reefs of coral, 
Rising silent 
In the Red Sea of the winter sunset. 

From the hundred chimneys of the village, 
Like the Afreet in the Arabian story, 

Smoky columns 
Tower aloft into the air of amber. 

At the window winks the flickering fire- 
light; 

Here and there the lamps of evening glim- 
mer, 

36 



CIjc <&0ttfen ffliXz-'&tatt* 



Social watch-fires 
Answering one another through the dark- 
ness. 

On the hearth the lighted logs are glow- 
ing, 

And like Ariel in the cloven pine-tree 
For its freedom 

Groans and sighs the air imprisoned in 
them. 

By the fireside there are old men seated, 
Seeing ruined cities in the ashes, 

Asking sadly 
Of the Past what it can ne'er restore them. 

By the fireside there are youthful dream- 
ers, 
Building castles fair, with stately stairways, 

Asking blindly 
Of the Future what it cannot give them. 

37 



Clje (Saltern Milestone 

In his farthest wanderings still he sees it ; 
Hears the talking flame, the answering 

night-wind, 
As he heard them 
When he sat with those who were, but are 

not. 

Happy he whom neither wealth nor fash- 
ion, 

Nor the march of the encroaching city, 
Drives an exile 

From the hearth of his ancestral home- 
stead. 

We may build more splendid habitations, 
Fill our rooms with paintings and with 
sculptures, 
But we cannot 
Buy with gold the old associations ! 



39 



Cljilfcrat 

OME to me, O ye children ! 
For I hear you at your play, 
And the questions that per- 
plexed me 
Have vanished quite away. 




Ye open the eastern windows, 
That look towards the sun, 

Where thoughts are singing swallows 
And the brooks of morning run. 



In your hearts are the birds and the sun- 
shine, 
In your thoughts the brooklet's flow, 
But in mine is the wind of Autumn 
And the first fall of the snow. 
40 



Ah ! what would the world be to us 
If the children were no more ? 

We should dread the desert behind us 
Worse than the dark before. 

What the leaves are to the forest, 

With light and air for food, 
Ere their sweet and tender juices 

Have been hardened into wood, — 

That to the world are children ; 

Through them it feels the glow 
Of a brighter and sunnier climate 

Than reaches the trunks below. 

Come to me, O ye children ! 

And whisper in my ear 
What the birds and the winds are sing- 
ing 

In your sunny atmosphere. 



4i 



Cfjtttrren 

For what are all our contrivings, 
And the wisdom of our books, 

When compared with your caresses, 
And the gladness of your looks ? 

Ye are better than all the ballads 
That ever were sung or said; 

For ye are living poems, 
And all the rest are dead. 



42 




designation 

|HERE is no flock, however 
watched and tended, 
But one dead lamb is there ! 
There is no fireside, howsoe'er 
defended, 
But has one vacant chair ! 

The air is full of farewells to the dying, 
And mournings for the dead ; 

The heart of Rachel, for her children cry- 
ing, 
Will not be comforted ! 

Let us be patient ! These severe afflic- 
tions 
Not from the ground arise, 

43 



fttttfgtiattan 



But oftentimes celestial benedictions 
Assume this dark disguise. 

We see but dimly through the mists and 
vapors ; 

Amid these earthly damps 
What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers 

May be heaven's distant lamps. 

There is no Death ! What seems so is 
transition ; 

This life of mortal breath 
Is but a suburb of the life elysian, 

Whose portal we call Death. 

She is not dead, — the child of our affec- 
tion, — 
But gone unto that school 
Where she no longer needs our poor pro- 
tection, 
And Christ himself doth rule. 
44 



&rgtflnatt0n 



In that great cloister's stillness and se- 
clusion, 
By guardian angels led, 
Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pol- 
lution, 
She lives, whom we call dead. 

Day after day we think what she is doing 
In those bright realms of air ; 

Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, 
Behold her grown more fair. 

Thus do we walk with her, and keep un- 
broken 
The bond which nature gives, 
Thinking that our remembrance, though 
unspoken, 
May reach her where she lives. 

Not as a child shall we again behold her ; 
For when with raptures wild 

45 



SMtjjnattmi 



In our embraces we again enfold her, 
She will not be a child ; 

But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion, 

Clothed with celestial grace ; 
And beautiful with all the soul's expansion 

Shall we behold her face. 

And though at times impetuous with emo- 
tion 
And anguish long suppressed, 
The swelling heart heaves moaning like 
the ocean, 
That cannot be at rest, — 

We will be patient, and assuage the feel- 
ing 

We may not wholly stay ; 
By silence sanctifying, not concealing, 

The grief that must have way. 



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Then stay at home, my heart, and rest ; 
The bird is safest in its nest ; 
O'er all that flutter their wings and fly 
A hawk is hovering in the sky ; 
To stay at home is best. 



43 



$ote£ 

The Hanging of the Crane. " One 
morning in the spring of 1867," writes Mr. T. 
B. Aldrich, " Mr. Longfellow came to the lit- 
tle home in Pinckney Street, [Boston,] where 
we had set up housekeeping in the light of 
our honeymoon. As we lingered a moment 
at the dining-room door, Mr. Longfellow turn- 
ing to me said, ' Ah, Mr. Aldrich, your small 
round table will not always be closed. By 
and by you will find new young faces cluster- 
ing about it ; as years go on, leaf after leaf 
will be added until the time comes when the 
young guests will take flight, one by one, to 
build nests of their own elsewhere. Grad- 
ually the long table will shrink to a circle 
again, leaving two old people sitting there 
alone together. This is the story of life, the 
sweet and pathetic poem of the fireside. 

49 



Make an idyl of it. I give the idea to you.' 
Several months afterward, I received a note 
from Mr. Longfellow in which he expressed a 
desire to use this motif in case I had done 
nothing in the matter. The theme was one 
peculiarly adapted to his sympathetic han- 
dling, and out of it grew The Hanging of the 
Crane." Just when the poem was written 
does not appear, but its first publication was 
in the New York Ledger, March 28, 1874. 
Mr. Longfellow's old friend, Mr. Sam. Ward, 
had heard the poem, and offered to secure it 
for Mr. Robert Bonner, the proprietor of the 
Ledger, " touched," as he wrote to Mr. Long- 
fellow, "by your kindness to poor , and 

haunted by the idea of increasing handsomely 
your noble charity fund." Mr. Bonner paid 
the poet the sum of three thousand dollars for 
this poem. 

To a Child. This poem was begun Oc- 
tober 2, 1845, and on the 13th of the next 
month Mr. Longfellow noted in his diary: 

5° 



" Walked in the garden and tried to finish the 
Ode to a Child; but could not find the exact 
expressions I wanted, to round and complete 
the whole." After the publication of the vol- 
ume containing it, he wrote : " The poem To 
a Child and The Old Clock on the Stairs seem 
to be the favorites. This is the best answer 
to my assailants." Possibly the charge was 
made then as frequently afterward that his 
poetry was an echo of foreign scenes. It is 
at anvrate noticeable that in this poem he first 
strongly expressed that domestic sentiment 
which was to be so conspicuous in his after 
work. It will be remembered that he was 
married to Miss Appleton in July, 1843, and 
his second child was born at the time when 
he was writing this ode. Five years later 
he made the following entry in his diary: 
" Some years ago, writing an Ode to a Child, 
I spoke of 

The buried treasures of the miser, Time. 

What was my astonishment to-day, in reading 
5 1 



for the first time in my life Wordsworth's 
beautiful ode On the Power of Sound, to read 

All treasures hoarded by the miser, Time." 

Maidenhood. When writing to his father 
of the appearance of his new volume of po- 
ems, Mr. Longfellow said : " I think the last 
two pieces the best, — perhaps as good as any- 
thing I have written." These pieces were 
Maidenhood and Excelsior'. The former was 
published in the Southern Literary Messenger 
for January, 1842. 

The Golden Mile-Stone. " December 
20, 1854. The weather is ever so cold. The 
landscape looks dreary ; but the sunset and 
twilight are resplendent. Sketch out a poem, 
The Golden Mile-Stone." 

Children. "February 1, 1849. I wrote 
another poem to-day, — on the children whom 
I heard rejoicing overhead while I sat below 
here in rather melancholy mood." 

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Resignation. Written in the autumn of 
1848, after the death of his little daughter 
Fanny. There is a passage in the poet's 
diary, under date of November 12th, in which 
he says : " I feel very sad to-day. I miss very 
much my dear little Fanny. An inappeasa- 
ble longing to see her comes over me at times, 
which I can hardly control." 



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